


Making You Proud

by Grimmy88



Category: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pairings if you so choose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmy88/pseuds/Grimmy88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellis' father has always been out of the picture but he's had his grandfather to make proud. Then, because of the apocalypse, he doesn't. There are others he can hope to connect to in the same way, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making You Proud

            Ellis was as good at shooting as he was at fixing things. That was because he’d been shooting since he was seven or so at his mother’s disdain and at the pride of his grandfather. The crinkled smile that had taken over the old man’s eyes when he’d shot his first rabbit had been permanently ingrained in the redneck’s head as something that needed to be continuously attained.

            He’d known his grandfather was fond of sports, especially football as most southerners are. However, he’d been less impressed with Ellis’ own athletic career than the moving figures on the television set so the hick had abandoned sports—football, baseball, wrestling—relatively early.

            So it was hunting and hunting alone by the time he was prepubescent that could draw out that wise smile. By the time his voice has started to crack and change however, another possibility had made itself known.

            He had come home after school to find the elderly man working on his truck in the garage. When Ellis had asked if he could help it had been as if everything had fallen into place. He’d discovered three things that day: when he was sixteen he was getting his own truck, when he was old enough he was going to be a mechanic, and when he climbed under that vehicle the look in his grandfather’s eyes was back.

 

            Now, shooting and fixing things like cars were undoubtedly two of the most useful skills a person could have in the zombie apocalypse. His teammates seemed to appreciate the latter just fine after their escape from a doomed mall and a neon river-town. Despite Nick’s joking, nobody protested when he jumped into the driver’s seat. They’d even let him rattle on about Jimmy Gibbs’ car and how the man had _touched_ the same steering wheel his fingers were wrapped about now.

            But, it kind of when to shit when they came upon too many miles of blocked cars.

            Rochelle had hauled off and vomited on the side of the road, apparently having hid her nausea at his driving very well. Nick had cursed Jimmy Gibbs Jr., which just hadn’t been cool at all. And Ellis had just kicked at the gravel, dejected and raw at not having predicted this outcome.

            Then a large hand had thumped onto his shoulder.

            “Relax, young’un,” Coach had said, “ya got us outta that hellhole.”

            He felt even better when their leader proclaimed his love of Whispering Oaks a few steps further down the road.

 

            Ellis and his grandfather had agreed on most anything. They were both red-meat eating, die-hard America loving southerners and despite what anyone said just having those qualities was a good thing. Sharing those qualities with someone he respected so much happened to have also been the most important part of his life while growing up.

            It had been his grandfather who bought him his first Midnight Riders CD and then poster and then concert tickets. The tickets had become a reoccurring gift whenever the band had toured close.

            Ellis figured his grandpa liked them so much because he could actually hear their music and even if for some reason he couldn’t (like his hearing aid sucked of battery power) the light show was more than worth the money spent.

            The band had plenty of fans, his own friends included, but Ellis had never really met anyone outside of the white redneck/biker mode that bothered with the group.

            Nick discarded their talent based on their appearances, Rochelle based on their names, and Ellis shut his mouth about them until Coach rejoined them after sealing the safe-room door they had entered through.

            “Midnight Riders! I got all their albums, even their new stuff that ain’t no good. Best light show in the business.”

            “Yeah,” Ellis agreed before he could take a breath. “I saw ‘em in 07. Front row center! Lost both my eyebrows.”

            Coach guffawed out a laugh and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

 

            Several of the game stands were still lined with their prizes. Whispering Oaks had always been known for its unusual gifts from the standard stuff animals to the outlandish swords. (Ellis’ mother had _not_ been happy when she’d found him slicing watermelons apart with it in the backyard.)

            One of the stands was lined with footballs and as if mesmerized Coach moved straight towards them. He slapped the ball between both of his hands when Ellis moved to join him.

            The mechanic then watched as the ball moved off in a launch from his grasp to sail through the air and thud against the cement an impressive length away. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to manage the same feat without putting on at least thirty pounds of muscle.

            “Dang, Coach.”

            “Could’ve been a professional if it weren’t for my knees,” the older man responded but his voice was devoid of regret.

            Rochelle crossed past them, followed by Nick who paused when their largest member grabbed another football.

            “We don’t have time for this,” the gambler said as a reminder, almost decent sounding for once.

            “Yer juss mad ya can’t throw that far,” Ellis teased. “I’m jealous, I’ll admit it.”

            Coach rolled the ball off the end of his fingers, bumping it towards Nick who actually caught it between his own. “No, I’m not mad. I played baseball not football.” He tossed it back and made to follow their female member who had gained a good amount of ground on them. She was searching one of the vendor’s stalls and the conman jogged a little to catch up.

            “Well, what about you?” Coach held the ball out.

            Ellis took it. “Played all kinds’a sports when I was young. Only a little bit’a football compared’ta you, though.”

            The former player shrugged so Ellis turned and prepared to throw his ball in the same direction the first had gone. He changed his mind at the last moment.

            The ball hit Nick square in the spine, sending him stumbling forward. And then the air filled with his curses. “GODDAMMIT, ELLIS!”

            Coach just grinned at him. “Couldn’t-uv done it any better myself.”

 

            Opening that gate had proved to be harder than any of them had imagined. First the infected had poured in from around them at the whirring noise it had made before even bothering to swing its blockade aside so that they could pass. They had set the floor alight and watched charring bodies stagger, limbs flailing in a mindless effort to dispel the pain that licked at them.

            The small space not engulfed by the dancing yellow and orange led to their exit which they each took in a hurry, Coach leading the way with Rochelle following very closely. Nick dove through after them, machine gun firing to cover their left sides. Ellis brought up the rear, as he always did. It may have been paranoia from being snuck upon one too many times by his friends when he was younger or the fact that he could see everything from that point and therefore could protect his friends that made him take up the position.

            Either way, in this case, it served its purpose and when a tongue wrapped about Coach’s torso, a Hunter dove onto Rochelle, and a Boomer decided it really hated the color of Nick’s suit all in rapid succession he watched all of it happen and was all too ready to move into action.

            With his rifle he was able to fire one shot off towards the hunting, taking off the back of his hood and skull in the process. The thing’s body lurched forward after the deprivation of such a vital piece of its body and Rochelle reached out blindly around her, unable to move the extra fifty pounds.

            Since Nick was closest to him, however, and currently blind, Ellis made his way over, catching hold of his machine gun before the northerner could spew off a clip into any and all directions.

            “It’s me!” He continued to hold onto a part of the older man, the gun and then his arm and then his wrist to place it at the back of his neck to grip in his shirt there. Then he began to make his way to Rochelle, grateful for Nick’s ability to trust him enough to keep up, carefully but quickly.

            He slapped the hand he’d been guiding away as he made it to their smallest member. Shoving his hands under the side of the Hunter’s deceased corpse and using the energy still in his legs he heaved her free. She broke away with a gasp and then took Nick’s hand when it was offered, Boomer puke or not.

            The horde was still peeling in around them, jumping over the fences at their sides and coming in waves from the front of them, the majority ignoring the large man that was struggling at the back wall. A few stragglers had come from behind.

            Luckily Rochelle wasn’t horribly hurt; there was a gash across her shoulder but she was able to lift her M16 and aim it behind them to clear the ripping arms from their speeding bodies before they could make any difference in the fight.

            Nick, meanwhile, had cleared his eyes, and seeing as how his suit was no longer white, but green and brown and red, was all too happy to oblige their party by taking out any and everything that hopped from atop that fence and then when that job was done, to plop down to a knee and cover the front while Ellis remained standing and aiming.

            Ellis’ shot rang out and ripped through the skull of an infected before him, utterly destroying the brain while continuing on to tear through that unnatural tongue and embed itself into the wall.

            Their leader went to his feet coughing but by the time they reached him he had rediscovered both his breath and balance. Their four guns continued to rip through the air as they remained together, Coach forward, Nick and Ellis to the left and rights respectively, and Rochelle covering everything that came from behind them.

            When Nick and Ellis had slammed the safe-room door shut behind them and finished piling up boxes against it out of habit the hick felt a similar hand on his shoulder once again.

            “That was some damn fine work, Ellis! Good thing we gotchyer level head around.”

            This time, however, his remaining two teammates joined in on the praise.

 

            If the lightshow hadn’t brought enough infected for them to defend against then the helicopter, which drew in any remaining enemies in from beyond the park’s gates, sealed the deal.

            Two tanks, not together, of course. Ellis had never seen two together and he wondered if it was because maybe they’d have to fight each other to get the right to kill any nearby prey. The first tank had been easier to defeat because he had come alone. He had probably been bounding in since the lightshow but the slimmer, smaller infected had the speed and so had beat him to it.

            Well, the survivors guns had plowed through those smaller bodies like they were made of paper. The Tank’s body, in comparison, was like going up against a tree with a dinky little car. So Ellis had backpedaled, away from the rest of his teammates even though every fiber of his being screamed that he be near them so he could protect them properly, but his mind knew better. He knew his weapon was long range, he knew that if he moved up close to Rochelle and Nick’s sides to fire directly into its face there was a greater risk for emotion and then mistakes.

            From far away he could fire, reload without any panic clouding his system, and then repeat the cycle as necessary until their foe could take no more.

            And if that meant watching Nick take a too-large backhand to the chest and go flying, so be it. The conman could get back up, was getting back up, and Ellis noted it in between shots launched into the Tank’s body. The Tank who was still pursuing their female teammate with such an intense gallop Ellis was reminded of a fox hunt.

            Rochelle was all long legs, running easily from bleacher to bleacher, never losing her balance or traction, even with her impractical boots. And between the three guns firing, and then four when Nick could apparently fire again, the monster fell before its breath could even reach the reporter’s personal space.

            As if that had been the frosting on the cake, the helicopter tore through the sky above them, circled out of sight and then back into it to lower and hover over the section of bleachers more convenient for it, further away from where they had taken up residence in the middle.

            It was really about time because Ellis had exhausted his bullet resource and so discarded the extra pounds his rifle contained in favor of bringing out the sword he had picked up early in defense of the new infected pouring in from around the walls of the stadium, urged by the pilot’s grand entrance.

            Coach, being the closest, beckoned them in his heavy voice, holding his arm out to Rochelle who ran within it and allowed it to guide beneath the spinning blades and then into the empty cabin awaiting them. Ellis ran within the arm’s reach second from where the older southerner had propped himself, hanging onto the tassel just inside the doorway.

            Ellis was going to turn and mirror his stance on the other side to welcome in their last teammate when he realized that Nick wasn’t behind him.

            Nick was still high up in the seats, to the left of where he had been thrown, and a good amount of distance was between him and their rescue vehicle. He was shooting around himself into the attracted horde, face grim and set, lined and unafraid.

            He was moving steadily towards them until his weapon clicked quiet. Coach and Rochelle had already dropped their own, just as Ellis had with probably the same thought process running through their minds. So now they watched Nick, the complainer of all things wet, nasty, and staining, plowing through a horde with a baseball bat.

            He wasn’t doing too bad of a job cleaning up when the first cement piece thrown by the hurriedly approaching Tank missed his head by maybe three inches. Something like that, however, tended to rally a man’s nerves and so the swinging of his arms stopped. Unfortunately the flailing and pulling and punching of his enemies’ arms didn’t.

            “Nick!” Ellis didn’t know if it was actually his voice shouting the name but he knew it was his feet that were hitting upon the bleachers again and he knew it was Coach’s strong, heavy hand plopping down onto his shoulder one final time as the ex-con went down, urged to the floor by a the pounce of a Hunter onto his back.

            “He’s too far away, too hurt!” Coach boomed. “Think about this!”

            His ‘level head’ told him the older man was right. His hunting instincts from his grandfather told him he was right. But everything else just screamed that it felt wrong.

            Just like using Coach’s precarious balance on his haunches with too-heavy a weight to knock him back into the cabin felt wrong. No, it didn’t feel wrong, but it hurt, to even have to knock him back just to go save a friend.

            And Ellis made it to Nick, with his teammates screaming at him all the while. He carved his way through weak bone and tissue, spilling blood that spewed onto his face and arms until he made his way the Hunter that sniffed up at him and snarled with withdrawn crimson lips.

            He put his sword right through its empty eye socket.

            A thrown chunk of debris plunged into the seats beside them, eradicating a good portion of infected bodies that had moved to converge on them. Their bodies cracked and more blood spattered and with the opening the southerner was able to get one of the suited arms up and around his shoulder and, gash wound or not, he wound his arm around Nick’s waist and hauled him to the helicopter.

            It was difficult, and they tripped too many times, his teammate coughed up too much blood and sucked down not-enough air to compensate, and just as they were about to hop on they were forced to take steps through Spitter goo, but they made it on together, in a rumpled heap.

            Coach stared at them, speechless, while the helicopter turned off. His eyes weren’t crinkled and his mouth wasn’t curved. Somehow he seemed dulled and so Ellis turned his eyes away from where a large, brown hand cupped over half his face, as if that were a way to cope with his incorrect assumption of Nick’s potential demise or that the mechanic was too inept to actually save him. Either way, Ellis didn’t want to see it.

            So he looked down at Nick who, despite his torn back, looked up at him with green eyes. Green eyes that crinkled and a mouth that turned upwards at the corner. “Thanks, kid.”

            Ellis smiled back.


End file.
